Experiments in the Culinary Arts
by CrazySpark
Summary: John is out for a medical conference. There's been no new cases for days. Queue boredom rampant, until Sherlock stumbles across a little book that used to belong to John's mum. Sherlock/John  clean version


**Experiments in the Culinary Arts**

Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable trademarks displayed in this work of fiction. The ideas and writing are mine, however, so I would appreciate that my rights be observed in that respect.

Thanks to Echo and Mirasaros for betareading, and butchering all my commas.

This was a **kinkmeme fill**. If you'd like the version with the **pornings**, there's a **link** in my profile page.

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><p>Sherlock was well and truly on the way to being epically bored. He was past "bored", and even past <em>"BORED!"<em>, but he hadn't quite gotten to "epically bored" yet. John was gone until the weekend, some sort of unnecessary medical conference, and he'd very inconsiderately either turned off his phone or left it in his hotel room. Lestrade was being exceptionally dull on the cases front. He'd solved three cold cases, but that was getting dull too, and John wasn't due back for another two-point-seven-five days. He was being tempted. _Sorely _tempted.

_(The cocaine was always there, though, over his shoulder, calling his name. He hadn't used in a year - a year he'd been clean and good, pandering to the whims of society, the police and his brother.) _

He could hear Mrs. Hudson down the stairs, being annoyingly cheerfully _alive_, with who sounded like Mrs. Turner from next-doors. He flailed at the coffee table for a moment before coming up with a book, and started to idly flip through it.

It was a cookery-book. Sherlock had a moment of blank confusion, before noticing the cursive name on the top right-hand corner of the inside cover: _Eloise Clarke-Watson_.

Older woman, relative, married into the family, fond of _(here he quickly flipped through the book)_ baking in particular, left-handed _(like John)_, used a perfume that smelled of sandalwood, or was fond of incense of the same scent _(no small wonder John liked that scent, burned it in his rooms upstairs when he thought Sherlock was out)_. Liked to cook curries of varying spiciness _(explained John's fondness for Indian)_. Annotated recipes frequently, liked to experiment.

Mother, most probably.

He set the book on the table and let it open to the most-frequently used page. It was a dessert, labeled in the corner with "_J's Favourite_". This most likely referred to John, unless his father also had a name beginning with "J". He flipped through briefly, discovering "_H's Favourite_", and also "_D's Favourite_". Likely conclusion, J was, in fact, John. Likely, since all the recipes were desserts, they were made for special occasions and birthdays. Harriet Watson was fond of lemon bundt cake, interestingly enough, their _(probable)_ father liked black midnight cake_ (improbably named chocolate cake that actually looked quite good)_, and John's favourite was apparently peanut butter chocolate pie. He looked over the directions for John's favourite and found them more complex than he had thought that cooking was capable of. Perhaps he should work up to that one, then? He stopped for a second.

Was he really thinking about _cooking_? Really? He didn't even like to _eat_. …But. Maybe John would give him one of those bright, honest smiles that always did bizarre and unexplainable things to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Sherlock had been wanting to study that odd effect more in-depth. Hmm.

He flipped through the pastry section, and found a worn, stained page titled "cranberry-orange scones". Hmm. He looked through it, and thought idly that cooking seemed to be at least two parts chemistry, to two parts experimentation and one part knowledge of ingredients.

He stood and walked over the coffee table towards the kitchen and looked for the ingredients. They had plenty of the basics, though they were out of eggs since he'd used them in his latest experiment, and they didn't have cranberries or oranges. Hmm.

He wandered downstairs, letting himself into Mrs. Hudson's flat. He breezed past her and her companion to the kitchen. He was elbow-deep in her refrigerator when she bustled in behind him.

'Sherlock, dearie, what are you doing?' She asked. Sherlock could hear Mrs. Turner peeking around the corner as he liberated the single egg he required and grabbed an orange from the basket on the worktop.

'I should think it was obvious, Mrs. Hudson. I am gathering materials for my latest experiment. Where do you keep the cranberries?' He said, looking through the vegetable crisper.

'I think there's some in the freezer, dearie.' She said, looking slightly worried. 'What's this about, Sherlock?' She asked. He waved negligently at the cookery-book where it sat on the worktop with the egg and the orange.

'I'm conducting experiments.' He reiterated, slightly annoyed. Really, it was perfectly normal, for once. People did these experiments _all the time_. Mrs. Hudson bustled over to the worktop and glanced over the open page perfunctorily. Her face broke into a warm smile.

'Oh, you're _baking_!' She exclaimed. Sherlock felt briefly irritated. 'Well, you certainly can't do that with your kitchen the state it's in. Cross-contamination, my dear; wouldn't want to get food poisoning. You can use my kitchen for this one, and after Mrs. Turner's gone home we'll see what we can do for yours. It's no small wonder poor John doesn't like to eat at home, the state your kitchen is in.' Sherlock paused and set the cranberries on the worktop. He hadn't realized that was what kept the man away. That was silly; it ought to be clear what was edible and what wasn't.

Wait. John was a medical man, and above that, he was a_ military_ medical man. This stereotyped cleanliness, probable disinclination to eat anything that had been in close proximity to something that was even remotely likely to make someone ill. Had he discouraged John from eating at his own flat? That seemed… he paused. That seemed unkind. He didn't _want_ to be unkind, not to John, anyway. He wanted John to stay – forever, if possible. Therefore probable renovations were required. Perhaps his laboratory equipment could be moved to his room? He slept on the sofa mostly anyway; there wasn't much in his room. If the ventilation was adequate _(John would yell at him again if it wasn't)_, maybe he could get a nice large table and set up a chemical lab in there.

'Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be… appreciated.' He replied. She pointed him to the other ingredients and pulled Mrs. Turner away to finish their tea.

Sherlock quickly discovered that cooking required a _lot _of attention to detail. It was _marvelous_. He wasn't bored anymore. Admittedly, the first tray that had gone into the oven more resembled hockey pucks than anything edible, but the second time he hadn't forgotten to set a timer, and they turned out perfectly beautiful.

He sat there for a second and felt absurdly proud. A little while earlier, he'd heard Mrs. Turner leave, and now Mrs. Hudson was bustling in, positively beaming. Sherlock was briefly wary. Why, exactly, was she so _pleased_?

'Oh, Sherlock, they look lovely,' she said. 'I smelled you burned the first batch, but don't worry, everyone gets like that when they're first starting out.' She reassured him. He felt faintly bemused.

'Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I had calculated the odds that the first batch would be awful, and they were quite accurate.' He replied. She looked fondly at him, and selected one of the scones. 'Now, I think we should see how they came out, shouldn't we? Quality control, as I always say.' She split the scone in half as she spoke, and he obediently took the half he was given and nibbled.

He was hungrier than usual, having been around the rather delectable smells of cooking for the better part of two-point-five hours. So it didn't really surprise him that he finished the half he'd been given. It was surprisingly delicious for his first attempt, he decided. He insisted Mrs. Hudson keep the majority of the scones, but she still managed to bundle him back upstairs with about half of them.

'I'll be up in just a mo, to help you out with the kitchen, pet,' she told him. 'You should change your clothes into something you don't mind getting dirty.' Sherlock looked down at himself. He was still pyjama-clad, wearing a soft grey tee-shirt which bore a sticky streak of batter and dark blue pyjama bottoms streaked in flour. Well. These were already dirty, no real reason to change them.

He poked about in his bedroom briefly to figure out where everything could be put.

'If I shove the bed – more like a cot – up against the wall with the wardrobe, then that leaves a nicely-sized space for a laboratory set-up…' he murmured to himself. He supposed the equipment could probably go on the floor until he bought a table. There was a soft click - Mrs. Hudson had let herself in. He went to the kitchen where she was standing, hands on her hips, glaring at the pot of feet in the refrigerator.

'Sherlock, dear. This refrigerator is going to have to go with your lab equipment. We'll get a new one – oh dear, that's a lot of money.' Her finger was tapping against her lip. 'No wonder neither of you cook, with the state of things in here.' Sherlock felt temporarily _(unaccountably – these experiments were _important_)_ guilty. 'New pots and pans, too, if what you've done to this one is any indication.' She sighed, and pulled a pad of paper and a stub of pencil from her pocket to jot down a list. 'Don't you worry, though, dear. We'll get it figured out.' Sherlock fingered the card in his pocket. As much as he hated to use it _(hated to be indebted to _Mycroft_, of all people)_, it did have his 'allowance' from their trust fund, and he hadn't spent his share for the month _(or half of last month's either, come to think of it)_ yet.

'Don't worry about the money, Mrs. Hudson. I'll come up with something.' He told her. She looked momentarily concerned.

'Nothing illegal, Sherlock.' She warned. He nodded acquiescence.

* * *

><p>The next day, the new refrigerator came, as well as the new table. Mrs. Hudson insisted on putting both in the kitchen and the old ones in his room. The new pots and pans had been acquired yesterday, and Sherlock decided he should probably show Mrs. Hudson the recipe so that he could get some assistance if he needed it. And so that she could show him these odd techniques. He still wasn't entirely sure how to get the cream filling correct. John was coming home tomorrow, and Sherlock wanted to surprise him. In the name of science. Yes.<p>

He'd also found the recipe for his personal favourite of the curries, chicken tikka masala. It apparently required two days' preparation, so that the tandoori chicken would be flavoured correctly. Despite the rather absurdly long list of spices, it still looked quite manageable. The pie recipe also said it required chilling overnight.

The worn and battered book dangled from his elegant fingers as he went downstairs. He had calculated the timing so that he came right after Mrs. Hudson had finished having her post-afternoon-nap cuppa.

'Sherlock, dear.' She greeted him warmly. Her eyes went straight to the book he held, one long finger marking the correct page. 'Have you found something you want me to clarify, dear?' She asked. Sherlock did love the way she knew he hated asking for actual help, and phrased it in a way he felt more comfortable with.

'Yes, I require a demonstration for this particular recipe. It is quite difficult, and needs to chill overnight.' He explained. Mrs. Hudson nodded and he proffered the book. She looked through it and hummed under her breath. He could tell exactly when she saw the little inscription on the page by the way her eyes lit up – she was a very expressive woman, and really set no stock in concealing the fact.

'I expect you'll be wanting to know what stiff peaks are, and how to correctly fold the cream in, then, dearie?' She inquired. He nodded, almost startled at her accuracy. 'Mmm, not an easy recipe, is it. Need a proper challenge, you do.' She flipped to his other bookmark. 'Definitely a challenge. Make sure to wash your hands thoroughly after you handle the chicken. Chicken's notorious, really, don't want to end up with food poisoning.' She snapped the book closed decisively. 'Upstairs, let me see what you have.' He obediently legged it, a bossy little old lady hot on his heels.

He hadn't started yet, so she had him put a metal bowl in the refrigerator for whipping the cream later. She started him on the hand-made graham cracker crust and then the peanut butter mixture. She took him through the difficult step, showing him what both soft and stiff peaks looked like and how to fold properly. When it was safely stored away to chill, she sat down with the paper and a cup of tea and supervised his chicken preparing.

He found the strange, cool, slippery sensation of raw chicken and the thick, cream-and-yogurt-based sauce to be oddly pleasant, which was strange. He wasn't really one for tactile sensation. That was really the main reason he wore those gloves all the time. Except that wasn't really true anymore. The coat and the gloves were to keep people away, to keep himself isolated and aloof. When John offered him those small shows of physical affection sometimes, he liked it – he wanted more than just a pat on the back, a quick ruffle of hair.

After he washed his hands _(thoroughly)_ and fought a vain battle against the plastic cling-wrap, with Mrs. Hudson trying her hardest not to laugh at him _(she ended up stepping in and assisting)_, he slumped onto the sofa with his violin to think. It was evening and darkness pressed against the glass of the windows, as if it wanted to spill over into warmly lit the room.

All of this may have been, in a large part, due to John, though Sherlock still did not know why. Sherlock had wanted – _what_? To make him happy? That had to be one of the most unselfish things Sherlock had done in years. Then again, it was also astonishingly selfish, too. John being happy meant he was less likely to complain about things, less likely to get mad, less likely to storm out saying he needed to walk it off _(walk _what _off, Sherlock's abysmal company?)_. It also gave him a peculiar feeling he was still trying to investigate.

It was like a pile of kittens had decided to take a warm, purry nap in the middle of his breastbone.

He felt slightly disturbed about it. He'd not ever had that particular sensation before, nor did he really have anyone to ask about it, save John, who was the instigator.

After having exhausted all other avenues of research, he decided to tell John. When he came back and Sherlock had plied him sufficiently with curry, pie and wine _(oh, he'd forgotten to pick up the wine, better do that) _he would ask him what the infernal feeling was, and how to ameliorate it.

Plan cemented in his head, he set aside his beloved violin, pulled on his coat and scarf, located his wallet and set out after the missing wine.

* * *

><p>He hadn't slept much that night. His insides were twisting themselves into strange, overly-acrobatic positions he was sure they weren't supposed to be in. Or, at least, that was what it felt like. He had no idea what sort of wine would go well with the curry or the pie, so he'd just ended up picking up a bottle of his favourite: a warm pinot noir. Maybe with dinner or after it, he had no idea. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson – but she'd already helped him enough. She'd even told him when he should start today after comparing John's arrival time and the recipes he was using. Singularly clever woman <em>(not brilliant, like him, but <em>clever_, like John)_, perhaps _(no, definitely)_ once he had more practice he would be able to do the same sort of thing. He realized with a jolt that he was actually feeling nervous – patently ridiculous, as this was John – good, reliable _John_, who appreciated little gestures.

_(But what if this wasn't a good gesture, what if John would_ look _at him, and murmur that warning – 'bit not good' – but if that had been the case, then the book really shouldn't have been left in the parlour, right?)_

It was early. He'd decided to bow to his insomnia, and rose at four in the morning to leg it over to St. Bart's, where he would work on a couple experiments regarding a case Lestrade had brought him the evening before. He set an alarm on his phone, and lost himself to his work.

He resurfaced some ten hours later at two, roused by the alarm. Ah. It was time to get over to the flat and start cooking – just as soon as he tidied these cultures away.

Forty minutes later he was ascending the stairs of the flat, Mrs. Hudson popping her head around her door to smile at him in a conspiratorial _(almost maternally _proud_)_ way. John's train came in at five, barring complications, so from the train station to the flat would be another thirty to forty minutes, depending on traffic conditions. This should give him enough time to get this cooking thing accomplished.

He started with the chocolate ganache, as Mrs. Hudson had recommended, and allowed the oven broiler to preheat for the chicken. He watched the cream carefully on the stove, stirred occasionally, as there was a small, red-ink dire warning of it burning in the book. Once bubbles started to break the surface he added the chocolate, removed from heat and stirred vigorously _(so there would be no lumps, another thing that had a little red-ink caution)_. He finally poured it over the chilled pie, stuck it quickly back into the refrigerator and turned to the chicken.

The chicken seemed much more labor-intensive than he had first suspected, which he was regretting. Then again, it made him all the more determined to get everything right. As it cooked in brief intervals interspersed with basting with butter and marinade, he cleared off the little table they generally ate meals at. Once the chicken was done he let it rest, as Mrs. Hudson had told him to, and started mixing up the sauce. Before he put it on the heat, he chopped the chicken up so it was ready to go in. He finished it up quickly and set it to simmer down while he darted off and quickly took a shower, not liking the faint smell of grease which clung to his skin.

When he got out he looked around despairingly – laundry was not his forte, and he seemed to be out of clean trousers. He finally found a clean pair of jeans at the bottom of his wardrobe. He hadn't worn them in a good couple years, he thought, but they still fit fine, if a tiny bit snug around the hips. He pulled his purple shirt off the back of his chair and pulled it on, buttoning it up as he walked to the kitchen. As he was checking the curry, he heard the street door open and close, and Mrs. Hudson carol a warm greeting.

John was home.

His heart felt terribly odd in his chest as he listened to the familiar tread of those feet coming up the stairs – slower than usual. He must be tired _(or reluctant to rejoin Sherlock's company, but this was John, and Sherlock was_ not _going to delve further into that line of inquiry, not when it made his chest ache so peculiarly)_. He could hear the door open and close, the heavy thump of his suitcase being set down and the rustle of his coat getting hung up.

'Sherlock, Sherlock are you home?' He called, and Sherlock felt the inexplicable urge to swallow.

'In the kitchen, John.' He replied, and made himself busy stirring the pan on the stove.

'God, something smells delicious. Couldn't eat on the train and I'm starved.' John said as he came through the door. He froze, hand scrubbed through his hair. He made an inelegant questioning noise and Sherlock paid no mind. Instead he gave the curry a final stir and turned off the stove _(which had been scrubbed to within an inch of its life when the new kitchen things had come)_. He felt his ears heat up and was glad that his still-damp curls concealed them rather well. He pulled a pair of plates out of the cupboard and turned to the rice-cooker, which Mrs. Hudson had insisted upon. The basmati rice looked done, and the little light had gone off so Sherlock hoped that meant it was ready.

'Sit down, John. Judging from the heavier tread than normal coming up the stairs, you are quite tired, and your leg is playing up again. You just told me that you have not eaten in several hours, so no doubt your blood sugar is in fairly bad condition. I made supper.' He stated, serving up a plate before he finally turned around. John was standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking at him with a sort of exasperated, wondering affection. He was dressed for comfort – unsurprising; as all he'd done that day was ride the train back home – in his striped jumper _(Sherlock liked that jumper a lot, for some strange reason)_ and a pair of worn jeans. Sherlock felt a warm sensation sort of… flower under his breastbone, and briskly ignored it. He turned away and prepared himself a much more modest serving. He heard a wry sort of chuckle behind him, and the scrape of a chair pulling out.

'I didn't know you could cook.' John said, and Sherlock sat down across from him.

'Well, really, it's quite a lot like chemistry.' Sherlock replied. 'I didn't know I could either, until two days ago.' John gave him a surprised noise as he chewed on a forkful.

'Well it's quite good for a first attempt, then. You could go a little heavier on the spices, but other than that, 's really good.' He praised.

'Yes, well, it got interminably dull whilst you were gone,' replied Sherlock. 'I found what I think is your mother's cookbook in the sitting room, and Mrs. Hudson was quite helpful.' There. He'd said it, no taking it back, no obscuring the truth. He didn't dare raise his head. People were so strangely sentimental sometimes, and he had no idea how John would react.

'Is that where it got to?' Came the soft question. His eyes flickered up to John's face and he felt reassured by the smile there. 'I was looking through it recently, and I suppose I forgot to put it away. Da gave it to me after she died. Harry is really bad at cooking. She's tried, lord knows, but she and cooking do not mix well at all.' He reached over the table and rested a warm hand over Sherlock's. 'I'm glad you found it, and that you're interested, for however long that lasts.' He chuckled. 'Especially since it got the lab equipment out of the kitchen. Where did you put it all?' He questioned. Sherlock felt better, able to fix his eyes somewhere other than his plate.

'I've put it in my room. It's not like I really sleep in there anyway.' He told John. He saw the frown line appearing between John's eyebrows and hurried to reassure him. 'I'll keep it ventilated, leave the door open, and open the window.' John chuckled again.

'All right, Sherlock, it's all fine, really. I just worry sometimes.' He smiled, rubbing a thumb over Sherlock's knuckles before retracting his hand. 'Now, do we have anything to drink?' He asked, and Sherlock almost started. He'd forgotten to fetch the wine from where he'd stored it in the refrigerator before his shower. It ought to be a good temperature by now, not too cold or warm.

'I nearly forgot. One moment.' He said as he pushed away from the table, fetched it out, and grabbed a pair of wineglasses. He frowned at John hesitantly. 'I didn't know what you liked, or really what would go with the food, so I just got my favourite.' He found himself explaining. John smiled at him gently.

'I'm sure it'll be wonderful, Sherlock.' Sherlock felt blood heating his ears again, and busied himself with opening the wine, then pouring two glasses.

The meal was very pleasant. Sherlock managed to eat his entire portion and John went back for seconds. John looked considerably less tense when they finished the meal, and Sherlock quietly boxed up the leftovers and stored them away. He'd been able to see the quiet tension that traveling had inflicted upon his friend threaded throughout the set of his shoulders all the way through dinner. The leg was tense too, and psychosomatic pain was still pain, still _hurt_.

'Go sit down, your leg is stiff. Dessert now or later?' He questioned, somewhat abruptly. John looked marginally bemused, but obediently wandered over to the sofa and sat. Sherlock replenished John's wineglass and handed it to the shorter man.

'Now's as good a time as any.' John replied. 'I'm curious. Surprise me.' Sherlock smiled a tiny _John_-smile and retreated back to the kitchen. He quickly dished pie out onto two plates and returned the rest to the refrigerator. He grabbed his own wineglass on the way back to the sofa, and presented John with his piece somewhat apprehensively.

John regarded it for a few seconds, and a slow smile dawned over his face.

'You didn't,' he breathed, looking delighted.

'There was a note, that this was your favourite.' Sherlock replied. He watched, riveted, as John scooped up a bite and ate it. A quietly blissful expression dawned on his face and he sat quietly for a few minutes before he turned to Sherlock.

'It's perfect. I could kiss you.' He said, smile bright, honest and completely heartfelt. Sherlock felt as though he had suddenly developed acute arrhythmia, and his face suffused with red. He ducked his head and ate his own slice, trying desperately to ignore the pleased humming noises John was emitting. It was surprisingly delicious – Sherlock had, of course, tried both the filling and the topping separately, but together they were perfect. He finished his small piece before John did his, mostly because John seemed to be savouring it. He got his blood pressure back under control and watched John for a long moment.

'John.' He said, after a long moment. John looked up and seemed surprised. He finished the last bite and set the plate down on the table before turning a little to give Sherlock his full attention.

'What is it, Sherlock?' He questioned softly. Sherlock wasn't sure where to begin.

'I think I'm ill – some sort of heart condition.' He felt acutely frustrated. 'It only seems to play up when you're around, though. I don't understand.' John blinked at him slowly, then smiled, reassuringly. _(Almost, it seemed, like John knew something that Sherlock didn't.)_

'All right,' he said, moving closer to Sherlock. 'I'm going to take your pulse, and you're going to tell me how you've been feeling.' Sherlock nodded, and a moment later there were fingers at his throat, expertly finding the correct spot and pressing a little. John's eyes dropped to his watch as he counted carefully. Sherlock relaxed and breathed for John, and a few minutes later John looked up. 'Your pulse rate seems fine, I didn't detect any irregularities, but take me through it, Sherlock.' Sherlock gathered his wits about him.

'My heartbeat has been feeling particularly odd when you smile. Like an arrhythmia, or something to that effect. Also, whenever you seem disappointed, I seem to have pain in my chest. And you make me feel _warm_, and I know it doesn't sound like an illness, but it _must_ be, because I have never, in my _entire life_, had these sensations in correlation with another human being before. I don't know what to _do_with it, or with myself. There's no one else I can talk to about this – you're really the only person who cares about my general well-being that I can stand to talk to.' The words came in a flood, then petered out and left Sherlock sounding almost uncertain. John looked surprised at the quantity of the words, but not about the content, it seemed, as Sherlock scrutinised his face. He gently gathered Sherlock's hands between his own, and warmed those long, slightly chilly fingers with his own.

'It seems to me,' he began. 'That what you're feeling is something very common, but not something you've felt before.' The intonation of his voice was surprised, but resigned on that last note. 'I can't expect you've ever felt anything _normally_, you're just that unique.'

'John–' Sherlock started, but John sent him a quelling look.

'Sherlock, you've had your say, let me have mine.' He said in a stern tone. Sherlock subsided. 'From what you have told me, I'd say that you have feeling of an affectionate, if not romantic, type for me.' Sherlock felt a little stunned. Of all the things he'd considered– 'You don't have a heart condition, Sherlock. You're lovesick.'

'I–' Sherlock started and then cut himself off. He had no idea what to say.

'Of all the things I thought might stun Sherlock Holmes speechless, it's this?' John murmured, almost too low for Sherlock to hear. 'Sherlock, it's all right. Perfectly normal, which might not be comforting to you, but millions of other people get through this all the time.' He said in a regular tone. 'You're even going about it in a moderately normal fashion. Or is this _not_ a date?' He questioned. Sherlock racked his brain _(don't let me down now, of all times!)_, but it seemed like a date, from all he'd read, which was strange and unfathomable. Who sets up a date when they don't even _know_they're doing it? He asked as much. John chuckled.

'You do, apparently,' was his reply. 'I've never expected anything normal of you, you know that. It's not how you work.' He moved one of his hands from Sherlock's and rested it on his arm. 'It's okay, I don't know why you're panicking this badly.' Sherlock looked up, straight into John's clear blue eyes. He hadn't even realised he was panicking, but he was, wasn't he?

'John.' He said, and then he freed his hands and wrapped long, spindly arms around John's chest and rested his head in the crook of John's neck and something _clicked_, and Sherlock went nearly boneless with relief. John's arms wrapped round his back and rubbed soothing patterns into his shirt. 'John, I haven't ever been interested in another person like I am you.' He spoke, words somewhat muffled by John's jumper. John's hands stilled for a moment, then resumed.

'Sherlock, have you ever had sex?' He asked, dawning realisation in his voice. Sherlock shook his head. John huffed, and laid his head on top of Sherlock's tumble of curls.

'John, you met Sebastian – they were all like that in University, and before that they were even worse.' John chuckled a little, ruefully. 'Yes, all right, they were worse because I was worse, but John, I've never even been kissed.' His fingers twisted in the soft, knit fabric of John's jumper. One of John's hands slid up to twine gently in Sherlock's hair, rubbing gently at his scalp, and Sherlock relaxed again, not even knowing he'd gotten tense. 'I was fine with it, the names and the disdain, and then you came along and you set my entire world on its end. And every time I disappoint you it's as if I've stabbed myself in the chest.'

'Oh, Sherlock.' And it wasn't pity in that tone of voice, Sherlock wasn't sure _what_ it was, so he lifted his head to observe. John's expression sent a prickly, warm feeling flooding though him, and Sherlock bit his lip. And then John's expression went something Sherlock tentatively labelled as 'tender', and he leaned forward slowly, giving Sherlock ample time to move away, only Sherlock didn't _(didn't want to)_, and suddenly Sherlock was being kissed.

John was kissing him. Sherlock considered this, pressing forward a little bit. It was rather nice, the texture of John's mouth against his, a little chapped, but warm and soft and welcoming. Sherlock's thoughts narrowed to this man, who had broken all of his barriers without Sherlock even realising it, and _felt_. John's hand had stilled on one of his hips, the other still buried in his hair. Then John drew away, and Sherlock realized that he had neglected breathing _(again, breathing's boring, especially compared to _this_)_. He breathed, and felt a little faint. He'd never really given much thought to this sort of activity in conjunction with himself. It had never really appealed before, seeming messy, complicated, with far too much "feelings" involved.

It seemed rather simple now. There was Sherlock, and there was John, and everything had clicked into place and it was _perfect_.

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed John. John smiled against his mouth, and then flicked his tongue against the crease of Sherlock's lips. Sherlock made a slightly startled noise, and then relaxed into it, letting John do what he would. John slipped his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and… _explored_, for lack of a better term. Sherlock, not being one to really deny his own curiosity, immediately reciprocated. This was entirely new, wet and messy, but Sherlock wasn't deterred by that _at all,_and nor was John, it seemed.

They kissed for a while like that, briefly breaking for breath, breathing in each other's air. Kisses alternating from sweet, light nothing, just a catch of skin on skin and a curl of air stolen from the other's lungs; to fiery with passion, all lips, teeth, tongue, fighting for dominance.

Sherlock quite liked kissing – and John seemed to be content with just that, hands never straying below Sherlock's hips, and Sherlock _appreciated_ that, _so much_, that John was willing to respect those boundaries that Sherlock didn't want to push _quite_ yet. He said as much, breathed out against John's mouth, half-apology-half-gratitude. John smiled again and kissed his words away, breathing reassurances into his mouth.

Eventually they stilled, Sherlock quite content to curl up with his head in John's lap and doze while John watched some stupid show on the telly. The fact that John's fingers where slowly stroking his curls in a way that was ridiculously soothing had nothing to do with it, he maintained.

Sherlock realized that this was what happiness _really_ felt like. And he was very, very happy.

* * *

><p>Three months passed. Things never truly went beyond kissing and a little bit of groping, which Sherlock had been surprised to find he was not – in fact – adverse to. It had always seemed distasteful. He'd never really gotten aroused before by the presence of another, of being touched. He'd mentioned that to John, who had looked mildly surprised, thought on it for a couple of days, and then suggested the possibility of Sherlock being demisexual. Sherlock had immediately looked it up, read through everything he could find, and decided that John was probably right.<p>

Sherlock had always thought that a relationship would get in the way, but this one didn't. It didn't change their dynamic at all, except to get rid of John's dates. Because when he and John did a date, more often than not it was because Sherlock had gotten bored again and cooked them something different and exciting. Or they were tired, just off a case and riding a slowly sloping adrenaline crash and they ended up at Angelo's restaurant.

The emotional front was also remarkably easy. They were already comfortable with each other, so home life was much the same, with added cooking and kissing and cuddling. Sherlock still occasionally did things that were apparently so off the wall they caused John to leave and take a walk to calm down and clear his head.

Sherlock had been almost afraid once that he'd screwed things over. It was one month and a couple weeks into their relationship, at a crime scene. John had said something perfectly brilliant – Sherlock apparently didn't quite know enough about medical minutiae – the woman _(the victim) _had been born prematurely, and suddenly everything had snapped into euphoric clarity. He locked eyes with John, elated and smiling, dragged the other man to his feet and snogged him breathless before running off to flag down a taxi.

On second thought, coming out to the whole of New Scotland Yard _(the part that they knew, anyhow)_ by kissing at a crime scene was not quite on. He'd not even registered the other people, so focused on John's blinding cleverness and the solution of the puzzle. John had caught up to him as he found and flagged a taxi, face flaming. He'd been puzzled, asking him absently what the matter was, even as he directed the cabby on where to go.

Apparently John really would have liked warning prior to going public about their relationship. Sherlock had had a moment in which he was sure his heart had stopped. John grabbed his hand, told him not to look so stricken, he didn't _mind_, just would have liked a bit of a _warning_.

And that was that. Admittedly, Sherlock was getting a lot of sideways glances from Donovan and a hell of a lot more sneering from Anderson. The first time the man had attempted homosexual slurs, Lestrade had been there, calmly asking Anderson if he had just heard the other man abusing civilians on perfectly legal lifestyle choices and whether Anderson would enjoy a charge of harassment and a pretty little suspension. Anderson had been very silent after that, and Sherlock had been surprised. John had looked quite touched.

Lestrade admitted that his fifteen-year-old daughter had just come out. As well as the fact that he had had a younger brother who had died as the result of a hate crime three years ago, and the homophobia thing made him mad as hell; their lifestyle choices were their own business. John had been appropriately sympathetic, and they had all ended up at the flat that night with Sherlock cooking and Lestrade and John helping him out. Sherlock had _liked_that evening, even though there was only limited cuddling and kissing due to their visitor.

Three months into their new relationship there was a perfectly normal evening. There wasn't anything particular about this specific evening; Sherlock had made them dinner again – Russian this time, pelmeni and green salad. John had given the required critique _(Sherlock always made John critique the food unless he was particularly tired or had had a bad day)_ Sherlock had been watching John for a while, attention always straying from the novel John had insisted the consulting detective needed to read to trace over the man's features or hands, or really just _him_.

And suddenly Sherlock _needed_. He _wanted_. _(And oh, wasn't that a new feeling.)_But he wasn't sure how to articulate it. He just knew, with unerring certainty, that he wanted to be John Watson's whole world. Even if it was for only a few hours, minutes. Whatever.

'John.' His voice had gone deeper than normal, and a little husky. John looked up from the bad television programme, _(really, what he saw in those, Sherlock had _no_ idea)_ and whatever Sherlock's expression held, it had John rising from his chair and moving to his. Sherlock reached out, grasping John's hips and drawing the other man into his lap. John chuckled, moving to straddle him, and Sherlock's mouth found John's collarbones and laid biting kisses up the line of his throat, soothing the sting of teeth with the smoothness of tongue and lips. John's breath hitched, and Sherlock figured he was doing _something_right. He reached John's mouth and paused.

'John, I _want._' He murmured, before slipping his tongue into John's mouth as his lips parted with a gasp. He felt almost as if he was drowning, consumed in the taste of John's skin, his mouth, but it still wasn't _enough_. John let him, for a few long moments, and then gently drew away, breathing unsteadily.

'Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me what you want.' He spoke, low and breathless. Sherlock shuddered, and kissed him again before replying.

'I want you. I want you unable to think of anything but me. I – I want to _have_ you, and know with all certainty that you _will not leave me_.' John looked wrecked at that, pupils blown wide, hair askew, mouth reddened and slick, and Sherlock kissed him again because he _could_.

Sherlock wondered idly if it was clear to John that Sherlock was sure, was _ready_, but had no idea what to _do_. He knew, quite clearly, what he wanted, but… John did seem to know, in that wonderfully prescient way of his. He stood and pulled Sherlock up with him, to John's bedroom. They got there eventually, as they kept stopping briefly for kisses, and once for the removal of shirts _(terribly important)_.

Once they were there, John gently shut the door behind them. He pulled open the nightstand drawer, pulling out a tube (new, only slightly used), and a flat foil package, setting them on the top of the nightstand before pushing Sherlock to sit on the edge of the bed and kissing him again. Sherlock loved the play of newly-discovered muscles in John's bare shoulders. The puckered spider-webbing of white scar tissue was no deterrent, though John seemed to flinch when Sherlock dropped his mouth to kiss over it. He was undeterred, though. John seemed unconvinced that Sherlock found all parts of him perfect and lovely. Sherlock wanted to work on that, but at a point in time when everything did not seem quite so immediate and urgent.

John coaxed his mouth back upwards to his own again, and kissed him before pulling back and looking at him quite seriously _(though there was that little gleam in the corner of his eye, all full of wicked mischief)_.

'Tell me what you want, Sherlock.' John breathed against his mouth. Sherlock's own breathing hitched, and he made a frustrated noise. John smiled. 'We have more than one option. We can not do penetration.' He paused, checking Sherlock's expression. Sherlock thought it sounded nice, perhaps, but strangely unfulfilling. He let his expression say as much. 'Well, then. I could be on top.' Came the next suggestion. Sherlock was briefly puzzled, before quickly figuring it out. Right. The flush was rising in his ears again, but it still didn't feel quite right. John saw that too, so he pressed on. 'Or you could be on top. I'm really rather… flexible.' Sherlock felt a jolt race down his spine and John smiled knowingly. 'And we have a winner,' He murmured against Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock felt very nearly undone.

He roughly pulled John forwards by the hips, and kissed him again – thoroughly, claiming, biting, possessive. John moaned into his mouth, which Sherlock felt was unfairly sexy. They quickly rid themselves of their remaining clothes and fell to the bed together.

For a while all the sound there was comprised gasps, moans, wordless cries and possessive words; the sounds of skin sliding against skin, and it was beautiful and perfect.

A few moments later, after the haze of the afterglow was receding, Sherlock rid himself of the condom and retrieved a warm, damp cloth and proceeded to clean up his rather sleepy-looking lover. He was prepared to return to his own cot in his bedroom, as they had never spent the night together yet, but lingered hopefully. He was rewarded when John lazily tugged him down, curling into Sherlock's very willing embrace as the taller man pulled the blanket over them both.

They lay like that for a while, and Sherlock contemplated sleep. It was looking quite attractive. Sherlock had almost thought John was asleep when the other spoke quietly.

'Did you mean it?' He asked, and Sherlock was puzzled. He made an inquiring noise. 'When you came, you said – you said "mine".' John explained, and Sherlock's embrace tightened slightly, and Sherlock tried to swallow around the lump lodged in his throat. 'I just wanted to know – did you mean it?'

'I – well, yes.' He admitted. 'I know I'm not the most tolerable person in existence, but I'm not entirely sure what I'm do with myself without you anymore. I think I – this is horrifically clichéd, and I may never forgive myself, you understand – but I think I love you.' Sherlock told John, feeling somehow lighter and also horrifically nervous. John chuckled.

'Only think you do? I may be hurt.' He said and Sherlock smiled a little and buried his nose in John's hair

'It's not as it I have a wealth of knowledge on the subject, John. And I consider it fair warning to let you know that I have been feeling horribly possessive and I'm likely to be insufferable.' He said. He could feel John smiling against his collarbones.

'I think I can live with that. Oh, and I love you too, you daft bugger.' Sherlock smiled widely, glad that John couldn't see him, and pressed a kiss to John's head.

'That is very good to know.'

* * *

><p>In the morning, they shared a heightened sense of intimacy, and John helped Sherlock prepare French toast, the way that his mother used to make it.<p>

They ended up with whipped cream everywhere, John sitting on the worktop feeding Sherlock strawberries as Sherlock fed John the toast, liberally doused in honey. John laughed, the bright sound filling Sherlock with warmth, and he leaned up and licked a smear of cream from John's nose. John smiled and fed him another strawberry before leaning down and kissing him. _Thoroughly_.


End file.
